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pencil-n-pen · 1 day ago

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ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

#girlblogging #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #dr spencer reid x reader #soft dom spencer reid #soft spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff

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woobly · 3 days ago

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THERE SHE GOES . . . 한태산 !

PAIRING. taesan x crocheter! gn reader GENRE. fluff, uni au, strangers to ??? WARNINGS. both are in uni but no scenes about school itself lol WC. 1.4k

𓂋˚˖ A/N. lichrally dunno what this is, i just word vomited 😭 i was actually gonna make another acc bc i got kinda shy to post here again but im too lazy to do that so here we are, ig im a onedoor now too 😆 𓂋˚˖ NOW PLAYING. there she goes by the la’s

THE FIRST TIME TAESAN SEES YOU, you were casually walking into the train car along with the rest of the morning rush. One of your hands was clutched onto your bag while the other was inside the pocket of your black puffer jacket.

He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. It was too early in the morning, and the music playing in his ears drowned all his thoughts out while on the way to his first class.

But upon seeing you, he was immediately awakened from his morning daze and stood up from his seat. Watching you switch places with him to stand beside your seated figure, he thinks he saw you say thank you, but he’s not sure.

Not thinking much of his gesture of giving up his seat, he looked out toward the city passing by outside. That was until the train entered another tunnel, and he was forced to look at something else; you, in his peripheral vision, had suddenly brought out a crochet needle and some yarn.

He was pleasantly surprised. People were usually on their phones while on the train, while here you were, your hands half buried in your jacket as they worked on some yarn as if you were in your own little world.

He wasn’t actually sure if you were crocheting or knitting or what. He had only overheard from the other students in his classes about how they crocheted in their free time, but he had never actually seen anyone do it.

He tilted his head once in a while to watch you, trying his best not to act like a creep. Not that you would notice anyway. He did this until he had to step off at his stop first.

The second time Taesan sees you, it was a Saturday. He unfortunately had a class in the morning, and he was on the way home after having lunch with his friends and spending some time in the library.

You were already seated on the train, hands busy once again. It wasn’t rush hour, so Taesan took a seat across from you.

You seemed to be counting something, perhaps the stitches, based on the way your mouth was moving. You furrowed your eyebrows, looking closer at your project, before pulling at the string of yarn exasperatedly. He was curious about what just happened, smiling at your frustration.

He caught himself glancing at you from time to time again. And this time, you almost caught him looking at you.

He saw you again a few times after that, to the point that he’s learned where to sit or stand so that he can see your reflection in the window to avoid being caught looking at you directly. He’s even learned what days of the week you usually share train rides.

At first, it was a little freaky how the two of you managed to be on the same train at the same time a few times a week, let alone the same car. But after a while, he started looking for you, wondering where you had gone on days when he’d usually seen you.

Months had gone by like that, Taesan watching you work on what seemed like different projects from a distance.

However, this time it was a little different. There were no other available seats except the one right beside you. There was still some space on the metal bars to hold on to, but something told him to take that seat (perhaps it’s the voices in his head aka Leehan urging him to do something about his little train crush; Taesan always denies it by saying it’s not a crush).

This time, it was difficult to see your face, so he could only look at your hands. He tried so hard to be subtle, but he supposes he wasn’t subtle enough because you suddenly put your needle and yarn down on your lap and took something out from your bag.

“Hey, I uh… made something for you,”

You were now looking at his wide eyes, a rush of different emotions suddenly coursing through him. Ashamed because you noticed him watching; touched because you made something for a stranger like him; and shy because you were talking to a guy like him.

He finally looked at your open hand that delicately held a stuffed black cat keychain.

“Is this a cat?”

“Yeah, that’s you,” you said as you smiled tightly. You acknowledge that he was a good-looking guy, but there was still something about him that intimidated you a little. “Um, I’m sorry if that offends you. I made it based on the vibe you gave off, but I don’t mean to stereotype based on the clothes you wear. Not that I made you a black cat because you always wear black, but the dark hair covering your eyes a little also kinda—,” you rambled, stopping when you see the look on his face and realizing you might have said too much.

Taesan chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended. May I ask why…?”

“Um… no reason,” you shrugged with another tight smile, trying to mask the blatant lie you just told him.

“Well, I’m honored. This is really cute,” Taesan smiled, looking at you then at anything but you.

You finally smiled with a more relaxed expression, lips pursing to keep yourself from smiling too widely.

“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give it to you after already making it, plus you sat here today,”

The truth is, you also noticed him that first time. You noticed his repeated presence the same way he did. When he was looking outside, you looked around the train car only for your gaze to land on him. You actually lied when you said you made a keychain for him. It’s actually a gift meant for one of your friends, but you decided at the last minute to use it to shoot your shot—you could always make another one. If he realized that you were also watching him from what you just said, then he was nice enough to not bring it up.

“This is crochet, right?” Taesan asked as he looked around his bag for a place to hang the keychain.

“Yup! I like to do arts and crafts as a pastime, and crocheting is the most… mindless one for me—for lack of a better word,” you both chuckled. “But it also keeps me from falling asleep when I commute alone. That’s why I mostly do it on the train,”

Taesan nods, his mind still processing what was happening.

“You go to Hybe U, right? Saw your ID,”

You looked down at your lanyard and held it. “Oh yeah. You?”

“I go to KOZ,” Your eyes light up in recognition as it’s the college not far from yours.

“We should—“ “If it’s—“ you both say at the same time.

Chuckling, Taesan gestures for you to go first.

“We should hang out some time… is what I was gonna say,” you smiled, looking at the boy beside you.

“Yeah, I’d like that. And I was gonna say that if it’s any help, I could wake you up at your stop,”

You frowned in confusion. “But you get off first,”

“It’s okay. I have time before class,” Taesan smiled shyly, unsure what to do with himself after making such an offer.

You looked away, realizing the boy wasn’t as intimidating as you thought.

“Well, I’ll hold you to that.”

BONUS:

True enough, by midterms season, you spent most of your train rides asleep on Taesan’s shoulder. You started falling asleep in the middle of crocheting more often to the point that you stopped carrying your projects altogether and opted to indulge in Taesan’s insistence.

The both of you were on the way home when he was reminiscing about his conversation with his friends earlier that day.

“Look at you. Who would’ve thought you out of all people would carry so many keychains on their bag?” Leehan commented after the boy in question mentioned how that first black cat keychain was apparently not even meant for him. You told him after a while that you gave it to him in the spur of the moment as an excuse to talk to him.

“Yeah, it’s kinda funny seeing you in your band shirts then you turn around and suddenly there’s a bunch of colorful animals and characters. Personally, I really like the Sanrio ones,” Sungho said teasingly. “Plus the way I just know it’s you when you enter a room because your bag is so noisy,”

“It’s not funny, Y/N made them! The plastic ones they also got for me,” Taesan blurted in faux offense, smiling and internally agreeing with the older boy.

“Yeah no, it’s cute actually,” Sungho said before bursting into laughter.

“Then ask Y/N for one. Actually no, don’t do that,” his friends chuckled at him.

“Then make one for me,”

“You know, I’ve already asked them to teach me. But I sucked so bad, and Y/N fell asleep while waiting for me.” Taesan chuckled while recalling the first time you hung out at the library.

“Man, he’s got it pretty bad.”

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justhereforsubsevika · 2 days ago

Note

can you write spanking with sevika please 🙏 preferably sub!sev 🫶🫶

This not gonna be written properly sozsoz but like a sub!sevi braindump i think yes

Contains: Spanking, brat!Sevika, use of flail, pussy spanking, ass spanking, use of the traffic-light system for consent (because checking in is importantttt), clit torture, denied orgasm :P

See because a lot of subs get thought about as fems a lot of public teasing is like

wearing a short skirt and bending over so your ass shows

wearing a low cut top and purposefully pushing your cleavage together

sevika is a butch. she does a butch version of public teasing

she'll look you in the eye while she pins a girl to wall between her elbows, flexing her biceps

she'll ask girls to spot her in the gym while she does squats just so you can watch as her spotter's eyes get trained on her ass

she'll even lift girls up just to see you seething when they giggle and grab onto sevis shoulders

(switching to proper writing)

so , what do you do about sevika teasing you all day?

She gasps at the way you force her down, acting all confused like she wasn't getting you worked up on purpose. "Baby-" she'll splutter as you pull her joggers from under her ass, grunting when you see the cotton of her boxers is damp. You see red, hand flying down onto her pussy before she can even begin to splutter out some bullshit excuse. She yelps and chucks her head back, her back arching as she grabs on to the armrest of the sofa you've laid her on.

"You think you can act like a slut and get away with it?" You seethe, harshly thumbing at her clit. She's soaked, you know she gets off on disobedience, you know how much of a fucking brat she is. She tucks her chin into her chest and looks up at you through her eyebrows, that dumbass smirk curling at her lip. "Mhmm, because I know it'll end up like this. With you p-punishing my pussy like I wanted."

You cease your movements entirely. What the fuck had gotten into her? She was no good girl by any means, but she was never this much of a brat. She clucks her tongue when you stare at her, heart racing, blood turning to flame. "Come on," and she grabs your wrist, grabs your fucking wrist, and starts making circles on her clit with your thumb. You're frozen. If you saw red before, you could only see the blood behind your eyes now.

You pinch hard on her clit, smiling sadistically when her teeth clench, seeing how her hand retreats to grab onto any part of the sofa. "You want to play it like this?" You slap her across the face and grab her up from under her chin, forcing her to look at you. "Fine, we'll do things your way. Flip over, ass up."

That smirk is wiped right off her face. She nods, her pupils wide and obedient, getting into position. You've never had to go this far with a punishment before, never had to concentrate pain onto her ass instead of stinging pleasure onto her pussy. But her behaviour warrants it.

"Do you need me to co-?"

"No I don't need you to count. I need you to shut up and take it."

You bring your hand down harshly onto her ass, the pain doubled since she'd hit her glutes hard at the gym to flaunt to whichever slut she picked out to taunt you with. That image pulses in your brain, both of your hands simultaneously coming down to spank either cheek of her ass. You grab at her flesh, pinching, squishing, whatever you please, before bringing down another harsh slap. One of her legs is bent up, her toes curling in the air. She grips at the pillows of the couch, crying out little "tch's" and "gah's" from between her teeth. You don't finish until her scarred ass is burning a deep shade of crimson.

But you don't stop there! No no, how could you when she disobeyed you so intensely, so purposefully, actually mocked your punishment?

Her head is fallen against the plush of the pillow, and, when you grab at her hair to pick up her face, you see where tears have wet the gray fabric. She looks up at you, sniffling, lip trembling, and you pout at her. "Poor baby," you deride, making her gasp out a sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I was bad," she chokes, grabbing at the grip you have on her hair. Concern hits you at her signs of distress.

"Sevi baby, colour?"

"Oh, green," she chuckles, "just hurts really fucking bad." You smile and rub your hand soothingly over her bruising skin. "Wait here."

****

You return with a toy you haven't yet used on Sevika. She's waiting, laid out on the sofa, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "What's that?" she asks, a hint of nervousness in her voice. "It's a flail. Give me your palm."

You place a few good hits onto Sevi's hand, watching as her eyes re-light with excitement. "Hurts..." she murmurs, seeing how her hand gets streaks of red drawn across it. "Mhm. It'll be worse on your ass." You sit beside her and drag the tails of the flail across her raw flesh, giggling when her muscles tense, when her breath hitches. "Poor baby. Shouldn't have acted like such a little bitch, should you?" You bring the flail down, making Sevika shriek in pain. Her crying picks up again, her whole body shaking. "No, no I should've been good," she stammers, her limbs limp against the fabric of the couch. "Mm," you hum, bringing the toy down, revelling in the way little lines cut across her ruined skin. You don't do this for long, just enough to get her really weak.

"Aw Sevi," you coo, bringing your fingertips to her face. Her cheeks are burning hot. She nestles against you, kissing your knuckles. "'m sorry.." she whimpers, "'m so so sorry."

"It's okay, sweet girl." You slide your thumb down between her legs and bite your lip at how wet she's gotten. "Love it when I hurt you, don't you baby?"

Her hand comes behind her back, folding it across herself, willing you to pin her down. She wants to feel like she can't escape the pleasure you give her even if she tried. "Love it so much," she chokes, moaning when you grab her forearm and pin her down. You thumb at her clit for a while. You know she'll be easy, she's soaked from her punishment, and she's pulsing hard against your thumb. "Need...please?" Is all she manages. You go a little longer, until she's really moaning, really whining, breathing hot and heavy.

And then you pull away.

She damn near screams at the loss of contact, and you can't help but laugh at the hyperbolic response. "Just edging me right?" She asks, a hint of panic in her voice. Poor Sevi, she's so far gone. "Nuh uh princess. Bad girls don't get to cum."

She flips over, immediately regretting her decision when her ass brushes your knees. "Ow, fuck- baby please, please I took everything so well," and she's weeping again, begging you with the biggest puppy dog eyes she can muster. "Yeah you did. Too bad you misbehaved all day, huh?" She shakes her head, kneeling over your lap and grabbing at your shirt. "Please?" You smirk and look away.

"No, Sevi, that's final."

She nods solemnly, like you just told her she has 3 minutes to live, sinking down onto your lap. You feel how messy she's making you, her wetness painting your thighs. But she's good, she doesn't even make a half-assed attempt to grind into you. Just sits.

And then, of course, you slather her ass in aloe vera, make her lay down on her stomach while you clean her pussy off. You take off her tank top, now drenched in sweat and tears, and remove her joggers and boxers. You leave her in her socks (her feet get cold </3) and massage her back, telling her softly what a good girl she is for taking her punishment so well.

Maybe you let her cum eventually, because you feel bad. Maybe.

ok maybe i did want to write this properly then lmfao

also PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE IF THE DIALOGUE IS CRINGY PLEASE+ not properly spell/grammar/ "does this definitely make sense" checked

#dyke #sevika #arcane #butch #lesbian #sevika arcane #sevika x you #sevika smut #justhereforsmut #sub!sevika

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octuscle · 2 days ago

Text

Coworkers and Gym Bros

Everyone here thinks I'm an intern. Yes, I did my Master's at the age of 23. But I also look much younger than I am. Well, as I said, they either think I'm an intern. Or they think I'm the post boy.

On the other hand, Gregory. Or Greg, as everyone calls him. Dumb as a loaf of bread, but built like a brick wall. A booming laugh. A dazzling smile. And an ass… No one can look at it without producing a wet spot in their pants. What I wouldn't give to be a bit more like Greg. We had Morning Board. As Product Owner, I ran it. No one takes me seriously. I pass the elevator. Greg is standing in front of the door. It looks like he hasn't even pressed the button yet. I say yes, dumb as a post. I push for him and pretend I want to take the elevator too. What a chance to be close to this Hercules.

The elevator arrives and is empty. Jackpot. With a dry throat, I ask Greg where he wants to go. “Ground floor,” he grunts. “What a coincidence, me too,” I reply. Shit, I actually have a conference call coming up.

Despite the air conditioning, it smells like Greg in the elevator. It smells of Old Spice, of fresh male sweat and of pure masculinity. Greg is playing with his cell phone. He growls something along the lines of “Shit, no reception”. Then there's a rumble. And the elevator stops. Jackpot? Or hell? Shit, more like jackpot when I feel the hard-on in my pants. It gets hot and stuffy. Very quickly. And Greg is standing next to me, stoically calm, playing with his cell phone. Suddenly, out of the blue, he asks who I actually am. “Eugene, Product Owner in IT Strategy, we're in the Customer Relationship Intensification team together” ”Ah yes, I knew I knew you. This IT stuff isn't really my thing. I'm someone who prefers to work directly on the customer front. Shit, I'm out of battery!” He loosens his tie knot and unbuttons the second button on his shirt. I'm sweating like a pig. Greg starts doing squats. The elevator shakes. I turn pale. “When I'm bored, I have to move.” Greg licks his tie and undoes another button. I'm surprised his pants aren't cracking at the thighs and ass. “So, are you lifting iron too, little brother?” I just shake my head. I'd rather he stopped doing squats. “But you should!” Greg takes off his shirt and tenses his biceps. “Here, feel it!” I squeeze the rock-hard muscle. And then I don't know what's come over me. I kiss the bicep, I lick it. I run my tongue into his armpit. Greg groans. I can't help but caress his sweaty abs with my hands. My tongue can't get enough of the salty taste of his skin. My cock presses painfully against his pants. I press my crotch against his. And I can feel he's hard too.

Almost tenderly, which I wouldn't have believed him capable of, Greg unbuttons my shirt and takes it off with the tie. He opens my pants and pulls them down. “I need a hole to fill so badly right now,” he says. “And believe me, it'll do you good!” I lean against the stainless steel elevator wall, bare-chested and with my pants down. Greg spits into his hands and rubs his cock. He pulls my buttocks apart. I feel his glans against my anus. And shortly afterwards he's deep inside me. Dude, the elevator is shaking. Only now does the alarm go off. A voice asks if there's anyone in the elevator and if we're okay. Thank God no one presses the phone button. But my screams will probably still be heard throughout the building. Damn, I always thought bodybuilders were robbed of their masculinity by abusing steroids and stuff. Bullshit. I mean, Greg and I do inject from time to time. But basically nothing beats hard training and tons of protein.

I don't even realize what's going on in my head. The memories of my computer science degree are fading. I studied marketing in Minnesota. With a football scholarship. Then the classics: cruciate ligament rupture, rehab, gym, more gym, even more gym. Fuuuuuuuuuuuck! Greg cums and I can feel his cum all the way to my stomach! Dude, his balls must have been filled to the brim. I spit my load against the elevator wall. Good thing we came from the gym. We grab our towels and wipe up the mess, panting. Greg presses the phone button. “Sorry, we must have passed out in here from lack of oxygen. We're two big boys, we use a lot of it!” I laugh boomingly. And am told that help is on the way. Suddenly the air conditioning comes on again. And the elevator starts moving again.

"Yo, two Americanos with protein powder, bro?" The coffee shop dude knows the deal. "Extra large, man," I throw in. Greg and I are basically legends here, like epic pups. Not too many peeps need XXXXL shirts that are snug around the guns. But whatever, we crush it in construction gear sales. Our clients sometimes got biceps bigger than ours—no joke. If you’re a little guy, you just vanish in your cubicle, like a techie or something. But who wants that, right?"

Inspiration by @possessionofdudes

Pics by @ki-kink

#ai generated #male tf #muscle tf #smart to dumb #jock tf #broification #bro tf #nerd to jock

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damnfeelings09 · 3 days ago

Text

DNA - Shadow's version

A.N: Hey! just so you know, this is pt. 2 of E.T

“Does he tell you he loves you when you least expect it? Does he flutter your heart when he kisses your neck?”

They had approved Shadow for field missions. The presentation at the HAR training center and the fact that he had healed so quickly had convinced Commander Hillsprung that it was time to explore his abilities. The first mission was merely for reconnaissance. They would send Shadow to Prison Island, the GUN research cradle that had been destroyed years ago, or at least that’s what they thought until they started receiving signs of life two weeks ago. You were happy; Shadow wouldn’t be locked up in those four walls 24/7 anymore, but that also meant you wouldn’t see him anymore. Your role in the investigation was complete, and your services were no longer needed. Now, they would focus solely on military training.

“and my heart won't beat again If I can't feel him in my veins” A month had passed since the last interaction you had with Shadow, the memory of his kiss still fresh in your mind. How you managed to attend, check patients, clear medical records, and keep the GUN clinic’s inventory was still a mystery to you. You’d only crossed paths with the hedgehog twice.

“And he just takes my breath away B-b-b-breath away I feel it every day And that's what makes a man Not hard to understand”

The first time was when you were on your way to the clinic after registering your entry. Shadow was walking with a group of soldiers, a bat named Rouge, and a giant robot. For a second, he looked at you, stopped as if he wanted to walk towards you, but his companions called him to leave the building. Oh how you wished he had come and get you. It was inexplicable what he caused in you, a feeling so foreign.

“Nothing more to say It's in his D-D-D-D-DNA”

The second time was when you were having lunch, sitting in the GUN garden while reviewing the Gamma team's follow-up studies. He walked right in front of you, not paying attention to you. You wouldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt, but what else did you expect? Now Shadow was a GUN agent, and there was no time for anything else. Still, how would you explain to your body what was happening? How could you make it understand that you weren’t in danger and stop the tachycardia before your heart ran out of your chest after him? It didn’t make sense. You had only kissed once, so why couldn’t you forget it?

“Fingerprints that leave me covered for days, yeah, hey, yeah Now I don't have any first degree But I know, what he does to me”

Friday night, you were finishing the paperwork for the week. The fatigue and stress were killing your shoulders, and you were ready to go home. You turned off the light in the office and were about to close the door when a loud noise made you open it again. There was a mess; your stationery shelf was on the floor, and surgical clamps were scattered everywhere. You followed the trail of chaos and found the black hedgehog leaning on the examination table, with one of his hands covering his left arm.

“What the heck… Shadow?”

“I’m glad to see you too, doc”. Shadow looked tired, dust all over his fur. He glanced behind you, acknowledging the mess he had made “Sorry”. he said, shaking his head toward the papers on the floor.

“What happened?” you asked, approaching slowly, moving cautiously as if you feared breaking something fragile, but at the same time, you didn’t want to pull away from him. You knew what that small gesture of closeness meant for both of you, and although you tried to stay professional, you couldn’t help but feel the proximity between you two as something more “Weren’t you supposed to be on a mission?”

“Tch, ‘ve been in Prison Island, for three days. It wasn’t my best moment, I must admit, I underestimated the area.” – He removed his hand, revealing an arrowhead embedded in his flesh. You quickly asked him to get on the table while you gathered the necessary tools to remove the object.

Although Shadow wasn’t bleeding, he wasn’t regenerating as he usually did either. You took the Kelly clamps and carefully removed each piece of the material, placing it in a jar for reaserch. You could feel his intense gaze on each of your movements, his warm breath making your bangs fall over your eyes. Your hands trembled as you remembered the last time you both had been so close. Trying to shake those thoughts from your mind, you looked up, only to find his pure red eyes staring at you, examining you.

“Perfect in every way I see it in his face Nothing more to say”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you said, looking away to return to your task of bandaging the wound. “I’ve seen you, even with your eyes covered and hands behind your back, you can feel danger from miles away.” Shadow sighed, turning his face toward the wall. “I did it for you. I wanted to see you.” Your heart skipped a beat, almost dropping the extra gauze in your hands. Shadow’s hand gently positioned itself under your chin, lifting your face so your eyes met. With every passing second, your cheeks felt hotter and hotter.

“It's all about his kiss Contaminates my lips”

“I missed you,” Shadow said. His voice as soft as velvet, enveloping your ears in a delightful way. At that moment, it felt as though the world had stopped existing, like a bubble surrounding you both, a little world where it was true that the ultimate lifeform, had fall for you. The glow in his eyes was hypnotizing as they moved from your eyes to your lips over and over again. Oh, how you wished he would take the first step, that he would press his lips to yours once again. You longed for the sensation, the pressure of his lips on yours. Shadow had the power to make your legs turn to jelly with just a glance, and how you loved it when he looked at you. The hedgehog slightly curved the corner of his lips, probably reading your thoughts, slowly getting closer to you, shortening the distance between you more and more. In a moment of clarity, you pulled away from him.

“Our energy connects It's simple genetics”

“Wait,” you said. – “This can’t be. We are… coworkers. If anyone finds out about this, all of GUN will come after us.” You lowered your gaze, a silent tear running down your right cheek. Shadow stood up from the table, now a bit taller than you. He grabbed your shoulders and faced you. “To hell with GUN and the planet. Nothing matters if you’re not with me.” His voice was fierce, the fire lighting up his eyes. It was then that you stopped resisting the desire of your heart and gave in to him. Shadow initiated the contact, placing his lips on yours.

“I'm the X to his Y It's the color of his eyes”

You had never been struck by lightning, but you were pretty sure this was what it felt like. Thousands of volts instantly running through every inch of your body as Shadow wrapped his arms around your waist. Your hands searching for the crook of his neck deepening the kiss. A warm sensation like tingling crossing your fingers. Orange sparks coming out of Shadow's quills, small electric currents making their way through his fur looking for a home.

“He can do no wrong No, he don't need to try” His tongue breaking through your lips, linking with yours, starting a battle you could not win. It was intense, both trying to devour each other's mouth. His grip becoming stronger at your waist, you could feel the vibrations of his body with the little moans that Shadow released. The ecstasy of the moment only equated to the energy accumulating between you, going from being soft, light and warm to a stronger discharge, a feeling that did not cause damage, but if it activated every fiber of your being, as if all you needed to live was this… was him. Little by little strands of your hair were lifted thanks to the static between you. The tips of your fingers curving inwards product of electricity.

The lack of air causes you to pull away from him, taking a deep breath, gasping, feeling the relief fill your lungs. You watch him, his quills raised, the reddish tips glowing under the light of the lamp. How can he look even more handsome like this? A few seconds later, Shadow is once again devouring your lips, your chest hitting against his firm one, holding you, the cold of his inhibition rings sneaking down your back. His canines fit gently into your lower lip causing a groan on your part, and a growl makes Shadow’s chest vibrate

“Made from the best He passes all the tests”

Suddenly, the tips of your fingers burn, the stings causing small burns, your heart races uncontrollably, and you could swear it will stop at any moment, but it wouldn’t matter if you died of a heart attack in the middle of the kiss.

“Got my heart beating fast It's cardiac arrest”

It was too much, the emotions, the beating of your hearts, the taste of your lips. Shadow’s spikes channeled all that energy, illuminating his body with a reddish-orange hue like the sunset, the pressure accumulating in the air. In a second, a spark flashes, the atmosphere seems to compress, as if everything were about to break. Then, a blinding flash lights up the surroundings, and the sound of the explosion is deafening. The reddish light overflows, sweeping everything in its path, each of the lights in the office exploding, leaving the entire city in darkness.

“What the hell…? Did you do that?” you ask incredulously to the hedgehog who has you trapped in his arms.

“Well, you made me,” he whispers. You couldn’t see him clearly, but you knew, from the tone of his voice, that a big, mocking, triumphant smile was spreading across his face.

“He's from a different strain That science can't explain I guess that's how he's made In his D-D-D-DNA”

#shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #shadow fanfic #shadow the hedeghog #shadow the hedgehog #sth au #mobian x human #sonic fanfiction #shadow #sth #shadowxhumanreader #DNAShadowversion

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abusivelittlebunny · 3 days ago

Text

"Alright, you want to try the leg-press next?"

"Sure, I want-," Charles can't finish his sentence before Carlos is taking a hold of the back of his knees and folds him in half like a pancake, making him squeak in surprise. "God-, Carlos?!"

"Leg-press, you get it?" Carlos laughs as he presses Charles' knees right up to his shoulders, leaving his feet kicking uselessly in the air.

He was acting as if it was all just a big joke, as if he didn't have his crotch subtly rubbing against Charles' ass, now suspended and out for the taking in the new angle. Anyone walking in could've mistaken the scene for a breeding session straight out of a porno, neither of their shorts doing a good enough job to cover up the mutual interest.

"I-, I get it, fuck-, Carlos, let me-, god-," Charles was laughing along as well now trying to buck him off weakly as an excuse to grind his ass back up against Carlos' hard-on, both of them doing a barely passable job at keeping the situation seemingly innocent.

"You're so flexible, it's quite amazing, I can just bend you right over-," Carlos mused as his strong hands traced up to Charles' calves, trying to gently straighten them, resulting a more intense stretch that made Charles cry out.

"Stop, stop, fuck-, stop, you'll break me, you'll fucking break me! Carlos!" Charles whined like a cat in heat, but Carlos was still laughing as he pressed Charles' ankles down until his toes hit the ground above his head. The only thing keeping Charles stable and in place was Carlos' relentless grip and his weight pressing down on him by his crotch.

"Will I? Let's see, I think you can take a bit more, sweetie." Carlos' chuckle took an unmistakably dark tone, his breath coming a little harder, his voice a little deeper, his habds gripping a little stronger. "Show us how far you can bend for me, Charles."

Charles felt like a butterfly pinned down for display. Carlos could brutally breed him in this position and Charles would have no other option than just take it. God, he wanted nothing more.

He wondered how different Carlos' cock would feel this way, how deep would it go at this angle? If he was to fuck down and into him, those thick ten inches would surely pierce into his guts like never before-

"Guys, stop fucking around now. C'mon we're on a tight schedule!" The trainer at the gym snorted at them, snapping both Carlos and Charles out of their stupor with the clap of his hands. It was like throwing cold water on sizzling coal, it made Charles hiss in annoyance.

"We know, we just-," Charles was batting lightly at Carlos' head to let him go, the compromising position leaving him blushing madly, but Carlos took no notice of the kittenish hits and just glared at the trainer without altering his position in the slightest.

His manic deathglare as the trainer kept trying to nudge at them impatiently made Charles giggle. They could be in the middle of the track or a public road and Carlos would still find it unacceptable that someone would try to cockblock him.

"Hey Jim, could you come over for a minute?" Carlos' personal coach, - Gigi, is what Carlos called him, if Charles remembers correctly, - popped into the picture like a guardian angel. "I saw your plan doc just now and I want to adjust a few things."

"What, now? We just started the stretching-," Jim, the clueless trainer couldn't argue much as Gigi physically ushered him towards the door.

"Shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes, yeah?" Gigi smiled but clearly shot the question in Carlos' direction who rolled his eyes with his own grin spreading.

Carlos really secured himself the most loyal guard dogs, huh? Charles mused how this wasn't the first time Gigi made sure Carlos had some alone time with Charles as fast as his employer's mood swung into that direction. He briefly wondered if he was trained for that purpose when Carlos was with other boys as well.

But before his mind could elaborate on that thought Carlos was pulling on his shorts in lightning speed, leaving them bunched around Charles' ankles; a makeshift cuff to keep his legs in place with only one hand while pulling on his own waistband with the other one.

"Carlos, wait-, stop-," Charles squirmed as his butt was suddenly bared, his own hard little cock hitting his tummy and twitching in interest even as he whined. "We can't-,"

"Yeah, we can, just gotta keep to a tight schedule, right?" Carlos smirked and spit on Charles' exposed pink hole crudely.

The obscenity of it made Charles gasp, which turned into a mewl as Carlos smeared the saliva around his rim before pushing it in the tight canal with his thumb.

"You tightened up a bit since the morning," Carlos mused, pushing the digit in to the root with barely any gentleness, feeling around the soft slick elasticity as Charles moaned brokenly.

They always started the day with a couple rounds of sleepy sex which turned rougher and rougher one after the other before Carlos let Charles out of bed; it kept his little body ready for Carlos' cock with minimal preparation for the rest of the day.

"Good thing we just started stretching, right? Fifteen minutes and you'll be properly warmed up." Carlos chuckled as he removed his finger and tapped the tip of his thick proud cock against the little pink hole.

"That's not-, oh my God-, Carlo-, ahhn-" Charles groaned at the familiar pain and pleasure that shook his core as Carlos slid in to the tip, pausing briefly to adjust to the tightness of it. Carlos cursed above him and spit again at his stretched rim where they connected, sweat dripping from his brow.

"Maybe we can push it out to twenty, yeah? Let's see how far you can bend before you break." Carlos chuckled breathlessly as he fucked into the tight crevice further. Charles' cry rang through the gym and probably through the hallway as well.

If his high pitched moans and begging didn't deter any visitors, the slick loud sounds of slapping skin against skin as Carlos bred him at a brutal pace surely did.

The angle was so fantastic Charles ruined his gym shirt with the amount he came on it untouched, and if his brains weren't fucked straight out of his head he'd have been concerned about the state the trainer would find them in, with his torso and face and hair all covered in his own climax and his destroyed hole leaking a fat puddle of Carlos' spend onto the mat below once his legs were removed from the bigger man's shoulders.

It was definitely after 15 minutes when that happened and Charles' numb legs barely hit the mat before Gigi walked in, the trainer nowhere in sight. Charles would've tried to cover up and show a bit of decency if Gigi wasn't acting so unbothered by the scene before him, simply handing a bottle of water to Carlos who accepted with a casual thank you and screwed the cap right off to take a swig. He barely looked phased compared ti Charles and if his spent cock wasn't still resting between Charles' spread legs, one would assume he just had a brief cardio session, not pound a twink into the floor within an inch of his life.

"He agreed to resume the session tomorrow, but from now on you'll have to train separately." Gigi supplied as he helped with toweling Carlos off diligently, taking another clean towel to ruffle his hair with as his employer drank the entirety of the bottle.

"Surprised he didn't outright resign." Carlos snorted and sat back to let Gigi take care of Charles gently. It wasn't the first time Carlos left it to Gigi to clean up the mess he made of Charles, and by now Charles didn't even think about protesting as he was rolled over onto his side as his thigh was raised to clean the mess inbetween his legs.

"I talked him out of it with an equipment upgrade, hope you don't mind." Gigi apologized in a low whisper when Charles hissed at the soft towel rubbing against his abused hole.

"Of course not, thanks, man. Knock yourself out there, hm? My treat. I'll hit the shower." Carlos tapped Gigi on the shoulder with the empty bottle, pointing at Charles before getting up.

Charles wondered what Carlos meant while he watched him shed his sweaty clothes and stroll towards the bathroom with a pleased whistle. Gigi seemed to know because he furrowed his brows and shook his head, murmuring something under his mustache as he picked up Carlos' discarded clothes from the floor.

"What treat?" Charles huffed, feeling still too out of it to recognize the pity in Gigi's eyes as the much bigger man helped him undress too.

"Don't worry about it, I'll carry you back to your room upstairs, alright?" Gigi smiled gently as he put the soiled clothes all in a totebag before wrapping Charles into a towel burrito to keep his modesty as he picked him up effortlessly.

"Carlos' room? Please?" Charles yawned as he leaned his head on Gigi's shoulder.

Gigi hesitated but nodded and made sure to adjust his hold on him carefully to not put any strain on Charles' body. "Sure, doll. I'm sure he won't mind. I'll get you roomservice as well. Any wishes?"

"Mmm, pancakes, please." Charles sighed against his neck and rubbed his nose against the stubble there, like he did with Carlos. Gigi's aftershave smelled nice, not as expensive as Carlos', but there was a pleasant smokeyness to it that reminded him of the woods. He thought about going on a mountain cabin holiday with Carlos, just the two of them, as he dozed off before Gigi even set him down on the bed.

putting carlos and charles in the same gym room, would lead to ....

#gigi cleaning up Carlos' mess my beloved #ficlet #charlos #might elaborate on this but i still gotta clean up and post the belt fic

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myswans0ng · 2 days ago

Text

As Grief Consumes

synopsis: An overconfident prodigy, a chain-smoking-alcohol-chugging brunette, a self-righteous hypocrite, a stoic unimpressed blonde, an overly enthusiastic boy and then there's you... A suicidal maniac.

contents/warning: MDNI, graphic depictions of violence/mature themes, ANGST, mutual pining, eventual smut/smut, slow burn, multiple love interests, character death/s, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, established age of characters is 18yo, jjk x oc, curse user!reader, fem!reader

status: ongoing

also on ao3: here

⋅───⊱ .prologue ⊰───⋅

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Kisaragi,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. It is with great respect for your family’s renowned lineage and reputation, that I extend this formal invitation for your daughter, Ms. Kisaragi to enroll at Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu Technical School.

Having had the privilege of witnessing Ms. Kisaragi’s exceptional talents firsthand during her recent fieldwork, I can confidently attest to her remarkable skill and potential as a jujutsu sorcerer.

At Jujutsu High, we aim to provide guidance, and an environment that fosters the development of sorcerers through rigorous training, academic excellence and hands-on experience. With our expertise, we can help Ms. Kisaragi to further refine her abilities and uphold the principles of sorcery.

We deeply value the Kisaragi family's long-standing commitment to jujutsu sorcery, and it would be an honor to welcome your child as a student.

Should you have any questions or wish to discuss her enrollment further, please do not hesitate to contact me directly.

With highest regards,

Masamichi Yaga Principal Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu Technical School

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

One.

Just one.

You load the bullet into the chamber. You give it a few long spins, playing with it like a spinning wheel. You count the seconds in your head, mumbling to yourself. The gears inside its mechanism, turning and turning.

6 seconds.

It took six seconds before the revolver stopped spinning on its own. You let out a sigh, exasperated. That took longer than usual.

What does fate have in store for you today?

Is your luck finally running out?

Will it cooperate this time?

How exciting.

You chuckled softly at fate– at yourself, really. The metal— as you brushed your finger on the barrel, felt cool to the touch. A stark contrast on the warm leather grip as you held it so casually like a toy.

You point the end of the barrel at the side of your head, its nozzle pressed against your temple. You have indulged yourself in another self imposed game of Russian roulette. The pressure of its weight almost feels comforting to you now.

You groaned, your tone riddling with annoyance. “If this thing doesn’t go off, I’m gonna have a bad day.”

Then you pressed its hammer. All you have to do now is pull the trigger, like you always do.

You laughed again, a little maniacally this time as you felt your heart rate spike ever so slightly. If you keep doing this, it might get boring at some point. You thought to yourself.

You recall the first time you picked up this unusual game of yours. You were eleven years old, stationed in the outskirts of some country you can’t even remember where exactly anymore. But what you do remember is your parents sending you on a mission in the middle of a warzone. Such a scared little twerp, you were.

You weren’t supposed to be crouched behind the crumbling walls of a war-torn city, tending to soldiers whose bodies were mangled beyond recognition, your small— fragile, bloody, little hands trembling as you poured every bit of your cursed energy into wounds that sometimes were too stubborn to heal or maybe you were just weak. You were a child after all.

A child gifted to wield the curse of the Kisaragi lineage. Oh what a marvelous specimen you are, they say.

You could heal practically anything if you will it hard enough! Your curse was a gift.

It’s a gift!

It’s a wonderful, magnificent gift!

You still remember the first soldier you tried to heal, a man whose face you never saw, the dirt had stuck to his skin. You remembered the blood that pooled beneath him, his groans of agony still sung so distinctly in your ears. You remember your hands pressing against his torso. Tears stained your eyes, but it was nothing compared to the gruesome sight before you. You felt your cursed energy course through him with whatever willpower your little body had.

Then you felt it like an orchestra playing the bridge of a symphony. You felt his pain— every jagged breath, every sharp searing ache of his wounded flesh, the metallic tang in your mouth, the mind-numbing throb in his chest like it was hit by a fucking freight train. You absorbed all of this soldier’s torture in an attempt to heal him.

And he died anyway.

Idiot.

You told yourself it wasn’t your fault, that some wounds were beyond saving. Poor naive you, crying because you failed at the one thing you’re supposed to be good at.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. You say to yourself as you tap the barrel on your head on each emphasis.

The gun felt colder now, as if it had sensed the shift in your otherwise manic mood. The weight of your memories pressing harder than the steel.

It was a long night, alone, scared and unable to sleep. Anyone or anything that you knew was far away. You saw these soldiers sitting around a comfortable and warm fire, their conversation, their laughter as hollow as yours is now as they played this silly little game of life & death. Passing around a similar gun. You would hear a click but no bang, then they would laugh, and continue their chatter as if it was nothing. Like a daring game to be played amongst your closest and craziest friends.

A normal kid— person would find this terrifying if they had witnessed such recklessness. But you were no normal kid.

No, no. A normal kid would run and tell an adult about what those dumb soldiers were doing.

But instead, this angered you. You confronted them.

Selfish!

You called them selfish.

Here you were using every ounce of your cursed energy, absorbing the torment of their pain and suffering just so they could live another day and see the faces of their loved ones once more and yet they were toying with their own lives. How incredibly… selfish.

At that time, you expected that these grown-ups– these soldiers would hear the sincerity of your words and the fire in your heart. To realize that what they’re doing is wrong in every way but no.

They laughed at you as if you had said the most ridiculous thing ever.

“A’piece of advice kid, you’ve alr’dy seen da’ shit they do t’us out there,” he narrowed his eyes at you, leaning a little closer. You could still remember the smell of tobacco on his breath. The same one your grandfather smokes. “If ya’ think ‘ya can find a candle of hope that we’ll survive this hell’ole, ‘ya might as’well look for f’kin’ Santa Claus,” he cackled. His friends, clamoring along with him like sheep.

“‘Ya might as well kick off b’fore they beat ‘ya to it!”

Demented.

Laughing.

Sheep.

Now, here you are. No longer that frightened child. Walking on a tightrope, just like they did. You’ve gone off to countless missions, stationed in every possible conflict zone imaginable, and tasked with high-risk operations that demanded every bit of your abilities.

You’ve felt— experienced almost every possible sensation of pain there is, from the sharp sting of a shallow cut to the jarring impact of losing a limb, and even… gunshots. Those still lingered in your veins, in your skin– in your senses, even after all this time. A blow to the head is nothing.

You exhaled sharply. Your finger hovered over the trigger. Your thoughts are as blank as the expression on your face. Your life at your fingertips. So poetic.

So… beautiful.

Click!

Nothing.

“What a bother!” You huffed, rolling your eyes. Just when you thought it was going to be a little interesting today, fate said otherwise.

Well, that’s that. You said to yourself as you swivelled your chair around, tossing the revolver back into your junk drawer.

Disappointing. You sighed.

“Well that was… interesting,” you hear a voice say.

You look up, seeing two figures standing before you, just by the door of your study. One was a slender guy, his spiky hair as white as baby powder and a pair of sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose, giving you a glimpse of his bright— almost blinding blue eyes along with his baby powder lashes.

Next to him, was another slim man but slightly more muscular, his eyes seemingly disinterested or bored. His long dark hair tied into a bun, a few untamed strands straying on the side of his forehead, almost as if it was intentional. His shoulders slumped, making the other appear taller. Next to each other, they looked like the two opposing sides of a yin yang… or the alternating stripes on a zebra.

“Usually people knock before they enter someone’s room,” you said. “Are all Jujutsu High sorcerers this rude?”

The baby powder haired man chuckled. His tone, light and carefree. It was almost annoying. As if he hadn’t just witnessed you playing this dangerous game of yours.

“Well apologies Miss,” he snickered. “But in our defense, the door was already open and we’re on a bit of a schedule here.”

You eyed them both warily, your thoughts elsewhere and you honestly couldn’t care less on what they were here for. You rest your cheek on the palm of your hand, your fingers tapping on the wooden surface of your desk. Baby powder was waiting for you to say something as he kept a friendly eager grin on his face.

His dark-haired companion rolled his eyes and nudged at his friend. “Satoru,” he muttered, his tone tinged with mild annoyance. He turns to you, he gives a small, apologetic nod. “Suguru Geto. It’s nice to meet you. We’re here on Sensei Yaga’s request to bring you to Tokyo.”

Ah right. The letter. You should be honored, like your mother said. Master Yaga saw… potential in you.

But you’re a skeptic at heart. Was it really potential?

Or a means to an end? Not that it would be any different with how you’ve been treated your whole life.

“Right…” You draw out. The adrenaline that briefly occupied your chest during your little game was now fading. “Sensei… I guess I have to call him that now too.”

“So you’re Gojo,” You point at the man with white hair then at the other one. “And you’re Geto.”

You’ve heard of them. Hell, who hasn’t?

Their names were passed around here and there by your parents in such high regard, though never directly to praise you, but as measuring sticks, impossible benchmarks for you to reach as if it wasn’t you who was keeping this family afloat.

“Funny,” you continued on. “You’re far from what I had imagined in my head.” You said flatly, standing up from your seat as you looked over the two of them once more. But you can’t say for certain how you expected the one gifted with six eyes would look like.

And his friend, well you can’t really say much other than your small knowledge of his cursed technique.

Gojo chuckled, his confidence unwavering. “It’s nice to meet you too Ms. Kisaragi!” He said, almost jokingly.

“Sensei Yaga spoke highly of you, I mean the Kisaragi clan had contributed a lot to sorcerers and the military,” Geto continued, his tone steady and polite. “Sensei regrets that he hadn’t approached your family sooner.”

“Does he now?” You said, your tone neutral. You start to gather your things from your desk, and stuffed them inside your purse, preparing to leave the comfort of your home.

The Kisaragi name carried weight, sure. But you always questioned whether it was respect or fear that kept it in such high regard. Being admirable is one of things they’d call your family but anything your family did or their ‘contributions’ weren’t simply acts of altruism— or out of the kindness of their hearts, they were purposeful, calculated and designed to cement their influence on the people who could afford it.

And you? You were just another piece in this carefully constructed game.

Suguru’s expression remained composed, despite your disinterest in his attempt at flattery. Gojo leaned against the doorframe, his head tilted as a smirk started to form on his lips.

“I’m not gonna lie, Sensei Yaga gave us the impression that the Kisaragi were a friendly bunch and your mother seemed very nice when she welcomed us to your lovely home, but…” Gojo’s grin widened as he gestured towards you, sliding down his sunglasses just enough to reveal a glint of amusement in his bright blue eyes, teasingly. “...you? Not so much.”

You let out a long sigh, your hand on your hip as you shook your head, clicking your tongue mockingly as if you were disappointed in yourself. “You’re right! I should be nicer! Wouldn’t want to drag my family’s name through the mud— how’s this?”

You straightened up immediately, your demeanor shifting so seamlessly like you flipped a switch. Your posture becomes more poised and polished. You clasped your hands together lightly, plastering on a cheerful, almost unnatural smile.

“Oh Mr. Gojo and Mr. Geto,” you began. Your voice so sickeningly sweet and polite. “It’s such an honor to meet the two of you. I hear nothing but good things about you both, and I must say, you truly exceeded my expectations. Thank you so much for gracing me with your presence today!”

Suguru’s brows lifted slightly, taken aback by the sudden change in your behavior, unsure how to react. Gojo blinked for a second before breaking into fits of laughter, clearly amused.

It seems that it doesn’t take much for the baby powder sorcerer to get entertained. His friend, on the other hand, was utterly confused.

“Was that better?” you said, your tone laced with sarcasm. “Now if you don’t mind, can we leave?”

Before they could answer, you walked towards the door. Eager to leave the room that you would’ve left with your brain splattered on the walls. Then you hear Geto speak, stopping you in your tracks.

“So what’s your name?”

“Huh, that’s right. Sensei Yaga forgot to mention it,” Gojo chimed in. “Care to tell us your name? I mean, we’ll be around each other a lot so might as well right?” He grinned.

You paused, your hand hovering over the door frame. For a brief moment, you felt like a deer caught in the headlights. Your name. They wanted to know your name. It was a simple question.

You had two names. The one that belonged to you.

And the one that carried your honor, your family’s expectations, their legacy— your curse.

It was at the tip of your tongue. It was the name that was drilled into you to answer with, the one that represented everything you’re supposed to be.

Yuna Kisaragi. The bearer of the Kisaragi curse.

The Kisaragi’s wealth wasn’t measured in money or their business ventures. It was you. A culmination of generations upon generations of meticulous planning and selective breeding. They didn’t need vaults of gold or prized possessions, when they had you.

You aren’t just one person, you are a legacy to behold of countless Yunas before you. The source of all their fortune.

Eleven Yunas, to be exact. Eleven women reduced to a role they had to play, a placeholder for their ambitions.

Your name was a beautifully crafted lie to protect you, so they say. It was easier that way, they said. A single false name meant fewer questions, fewer loose ends, and fewer ways for anyone to connect you to your true identity to the Kisaragi fortune.

Most days you forget you had a real name. Not that it mattered anyway. No one knew what it was except you.

You turned slightly, looking over your shoulder. A small, practiced smile curved on your lips, one you had perfected over years of appeasing those who have raised you and those around you.

“Yuna,” you said smoothly. The name slips from your tongue with an almost mechanical ease.

“Are we good now?” You asked, as you turned towards the door again.

Geto tilted his head, his sharp eyes observing you, you could almost feel it burning on your back. “You’re taking that gun with you?”

So he noticed.

“I’m not one to know much about women’s accessories and things they keep in their purse, it’s none of my business, really but that’s a pretty bold accessory to carry around, don’cha think?”

Gojo remained silent, as if to let his friend address the elephant in the room. I mean, they did walk in on you about to off yourself, it’s stupid to think that they’ve forgotten about it or let alone not notice that you had shoved it in your purse- not that you were being sneaky about it either.

You glanced back at them, trying to read if they were serious. Their gazes were nothing but solemn and even a little curious.

“Caught me,” You shrugged mockingly. “Here, I’ll put it in this little drawer.” You slid open the small end table next to the door and dropped it inside before closing it shut, waving it off with a smile.

“Were you really going to off yourself?” Geto asked bluntly, he watched you with a humorless expression, his sternness palpable.

His— concern almost made you laugh. Instead your lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Lucky for you guys, it didn’t go off,” you said. “Would’ve been so rude of me if it did and you came all this way for nothing tsk tsk,” you clicked your tongue, shaking your head in ridicule.

“I mean what would my mother say?” You continue to mock. Then you turn on your heel, scoffing softly.

Sure enough, as you walked out the door of your study, Gojo and Geto exchanged a knowing look.

Gojo shrugged, chuckling at the absurdity of it all, and Geto can’t help but feel a migraine coming on, unsure if it was due to the 4 hour drive to get to your estate or you were right about the mere possibility that they would have gotten an earful from Yaga if they found you dead.

But one thing is for certain, you were going to be a handful.

a/n: i came up with the title and story while i was listening to 'As Grief Consumes' by Peter Gundry, i highly recommend it...

also on ao3: here

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spiderb00 · 2 days ago

Text

REST IN ME

Anora x reader

“After everything Ani has been through, the universe has finally given her the peace she has always wanted, you.”

Genre – Fluff Warnings – Just comfort, my poor girl has suffered enough

Now playing – Stargazing, by The Neighbourhood

Anora was awakened by the rays of sunlight that came in through the half-open curtain. It was only seven in the morning, she didn't want to wake up so early, but just not having to wake up with the noises of the train passing practically inside her old house, she was already happy.

Turning over on the bed, she reached for you, despite the sun streaming in through the window, she was starting to get cold now that you were no longer there to warm her up. She picked up the phone on the bedside table, looking at the time and sighing, where had you gone so soon?

Ani had known you a two and a half years ago now, you and she met after all the traumatic experience she went through with Vanya. It took a long time for her to trust you after everything that rich jerk did to her, but at some point, she just accepted that she was falling in love with you. At the beginning of your relationship, she was extremely suspicious, always thinking that everything you did for her was an exchange, something dirty that hovered in her mind.

All of these thoughts stopped after you confronted her, telling her that you understood all the traumas and that you loved her, but you wouldn't continue in a relationship where she didn't feel totally comfortable with you. After that, everything changed, she told you everything, her wishes, her dreams, her achievements, the bad things and the good things. When you asked her if she missed something, the only thing she said was "It was nice to be a trophy wife for a few days."

So it was done, you weren't as rich as Vanya, but you could give everything Ani wanted. You worked in the real estate business from a very young age, following in your father's footsteps, the older man had left many teachings for you before leaving, and you managed to make good use of everything.

Ani is the woman of your life, you knew how hard that girl had worked practically her entire life, and you were more than happy to give her everything she wanted. A house in a posh neighborhood? it was hers. A car? it was hers. Expensive trips? she had. Marriage and children? You were working on it.

In the midst of all this, Ani understood that there was a big difference about how Vanya treated her and how you treated her. She didn't want to make comparisons, but at one point, it was simply impossible to say that she had the same trophy wife experience with the two of you. Despite the expensive gifts and without doing any work, Ani understood that having sex and watching that spoiled idiot play video games was not very well the definition of a trophy wife.

You adored Ani, you would lick the floor she walked on if she asked you to, you were devoted to her. Money wasn't the only thing that made Ani look powerful, you made her look that way. Ani had one certainty with you, you were in love with her, you loved her above all, you would do anything for her.

In the little things, all the little gestures and attitudes were what made Ani sure that you loved her deeply, the peace and tranquility of being loved that she had never received from anyone before, the calm and peace of knowing that you would solve any problem, as an adult.

Going downstairs, Ani saw your dog lying in the living room, near the couch. Nico had been rescued by you in an alley, while you were going to visit Ani at her old house. You took him along with you to the date you and she would have that day, it was kind of a pretext for Ani to finally come and live with you.

You and Ani were sitting on the towel, the little ball of fur lying on your girlfriend's lap, his little eyes closing with the caresses she made on his head.

"Hey, if I knew you would steal my girlfriend's attention I wouldn't have brought you." You said, a whisper loud enough for Ani to hear and let a giggle escape, lightly pushing your shoulders.

"Stop, it's not his fault that he's cuter than you." Hearing her words, you threw yourself back, your back resting on the thin fabric, which made you feel the grass beneath it.

"Ouch, I'm dying! Please someone help me, this beautiful woman just stabbed my heart!" You said, a little too loud, making Ani turn towards you and cover your mouth, still giggling at your childish behavior.

"Shut up, you idiot, do you want everyone to listen to your little drama?" Ani watched your eyes widen and then you tried to scream again.

Your muffled words could be heard only by Ani, who still had her hand against your mouth, to prevent a scene. Seeing that you had finally finished with your little theater, she let you go, instantly seeing the big smile on your face.

"You're so stupid." The brunette said, rolling her eyes as she tried to hide a laugh.

"And you're very BORING!" You shouted the last part, taking Ani – by surprise – by the shoulders and making her lie down next to you.

Unable to hide her laughter this time, the woman laughed out loud, making the little puppy jump between you and bark. With your attention focused on the little puppy, you supported your weight on one of your elbows, turning to your girlfriend and placing the puppy between the bodies of the two of you.

"So, do you have a name suggestion?" You asked, petting the puppy, who was now lying on his back, one of his paws moving when you scratched in the right place.

"How about Nico?" The brunette said, something in the way she said it made you think she had been plotting this for a while.

"I like it. But why Nico?" You asked, seeing if you could get something out of the beautiful brunette.

"It's just... A junction." Ani said, more shy than usual.

"Work it out, baby." Her eyes were beautiful in the light of the sunset.

"You know, my name is Ani, and people call you Conrad, I just thought, it might be kind of silly..." She looked away.

Some people close to you called you Conrad, it was your father's last name, and you didn't mind carrying it around a little from time to time.

"I loved it." You said, taking a strand of hair that fell in front of the brunette's face. You loved the little sparkles in her hair, it was so Anora. "That's it, Nico. I loved it." You said, approaching and kissing Ani.

Your lips glued to hers for a few seconds, before you pulled away to play with Nico, who was biting your shirt. If you looked twice, you would see the adoring look that Ani had for you. Anora had never said "I love you" to you, but at that moment, she was stuck, that's all she wanted to say. The fear of being scorned once again held him in her tongue, but it didn't take more than a week for her to say it out loud, jumping with happiness when you gave her the key to the apartment of the two of you.

Petting the dog's ears - who was now grown up - Ani heard the door open, looking in the direction of the sound and seeing you enter with a multitude of bags in your hands.

"Hey, are you awake?!" You said, leaving the bags on the kitchen counter and running to the couch to talk to your girlfriend.

Leaning in slightly, you kissed Ani's lips lovingly, sitting next to her and petting Nico before taking off your running shoes.

"I can't sleep when you're not there to warm me up." The brunette said, pulling your compression shirt so that you leaned completely against the couch.

"Where have you gone, baby? Why so many bags?" Ani asked, snuggling on your chest, when you finished taking off your shoes.

"Well, I went for a run to the gym and then stopped by the supermarket to buy some ingredients for dinner with my parents." You said, kissing Ani's forehead, making the woman raise her head, your kisses going down to her nose and finally leaving a little seal on her lips.

Anora adored your parents, and your parents adored her. Ani was very happy when everything went well, she was very nervous before meeting your mother and stepfather. You had a good relationship with your mother's current husband, he took care of you from the age of fifteen until now, and you are grateful for everything he does for you, and if you were happy, Ani was happy.

"I'm going to make your favorite." You said, kissing the woman's lips once more. God, you didn't want to let go of her ever again.

"I love you." Ani's eyes looked directly at yours, you felt like you were in the clouds every time she looked at you like that.

"I love you more." You joined your lips with hers, a calm kiss full of love. The hearts of both of you beating hard in your chest, the burning love and the flame that never went out creating more strength within you. Every moment like this was like a reminder to Anora, a message that she would never be alone again, that she had you forever.

"I think we have to enjoy it a lot before we have company in the house." the woman said, her hands trying to take off your compression shirt.

"You don't even want to eat breakfast?" You asked, knowing the answer your future wife would give.

"You're my breakfast." Ani said, kissing your neck and jaw, whimpering like a child when she couldn't take off your shirt as she wanted.

"Anora, you're going to be the death of me." She smiled. Amazingly, she never felt bothered that you called her by her real name, sometimes even preferring it more than when you called her Ani. "Shower?"

"Let's start the day, baby."

Hi guys, how are you? I hope everyone is well.

This is a little different from what I usually write around here, but I've been obsessed with Mikey since scream 5, so when I saw her in Anora my crush for her ignited again (she never went out).

I needed to write about her, I wanted to write something for Mikey too, in the same style, something fluff, but anyway, I hope you enjoyed it.

Drink water, stay safe and go watch Anora!

xoxo, spider.

#mikey madison x reader #anora x reader #anora mikheeva x reader #ani mikheeva x reader #gxg imagine #wlw imagine

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ki-kink · 2 days ago

Note

Hi. I've been interested in the wereteenager theme and in particular in the transformation, but I have trouble imagining it. It seems to be gradual and has various phases. Is there a precise sequence in the physical changes? How do fat mass and muscle mass change in the various parts of the body? Is it painful? What thoughts or images form in your mind during the various phases? In short, if we were to shoot a scene from a film that represents it in its entirety, like the one in "An American Werewolf in London", how should we imagine it.

There is no photographic or even filmed documentation. What I have found is this protocol of a patient. Sorry, that's all I know….

22:00: Photo for the transformation protocol is taken. It's the usual feeling before a Friday night. Anxiety. Anticipation. In any case, it's a strange feeling.

06:00: The alarm clock wasn't actually supposed to ring for another 20 minutes. But like almost every Friday, I'm woken up by an incredible morning erection. Like almost every Friday morning, I also had a wet dream. I have to make up the bed.

06:30: To get rid of the erection, I masturbated in the bathroom. It didn't take long to ejaculate. The plan to measure the amount once didn't work out again as I spread my sperm uncontrollably around the bathroom. My testicles are covered in soft fuzz, as is my upper lip.

07:30: After showering, I had to masturbate a second time. I have the feeling that the ejaculation was stronger than the first one. Although I'm freshly showered, I already smell of sweat under my armpits again. My armpit hair is much bushier than usual.

09:30: The morning board at Teams was torture. I find it hard to concentrate. Especially when Luke is in a call. He looks incredibly hot. I have a steadfast erection and a wet precum stain in my pants.

12:00: The morning has been exhausting. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. To be honest, I've been online most of the time. Watching football scores, TikTok, Instagram… My colleagues went out for a salad. I had such a craving for a burger. I went to a burger joint around the corner. There were three hot high school jocks sitting at a table. I asked if I could sit with them. The looks were a mixture of disgusted and amused.

2:00 p.m.: Had to jerk off, couldn't help myself. Fantasized about standing in the shower with the guys from the burger joint after a soccer training session. When I washed my hands afterwards, I looked in the mirror. Despite shaving this morning, there's already beard fuzz on my upper lip again. But apart from that, my reflection pisses me off. That's not me. I'm not an old man.

4:30 p.m.: End of work. At last. On the subway, I see that I'm wearing my worn-out Chucks. It's a good thing none of my colleagues saw. The sun will set in a good hour. I still have no idea what I'm going to do tonight. There's not much pocket money left. Shit, I have to piss. Good thing I have to go out next stop.

4:35 pm: Yo, I'm at the station loo, takin' a leak. Bro, my dude: Däng! This thing's rock hard, like a baseball bat, no joke! My whole body's shakin', but not 'cause it's chilly. More like when you're doin’ your thing on the QB's ass. Man, my bladder was about to explode. Piss everywhere—looked like I got sprayed. Had to swap my threads. Good thing we got football practice today, right?

4:42 pm: I'm at the sink in my jersey and shorts, checkin' my hair, feelin' fresh. Then this dude sneaks up behind me, crazy eyes and all. His hand's on my junk, and he’s old—like 30 or somethin'. Just goes “50”. Bro, 50 bucks for a blowie?! Jackpot! This night is gonna be lit!

02:00 am: Dude, I'm so lit right now! Almost forgot that damn control pic. But the team doc and coach need it, I think. Gotta hit up that skater dude I met at the club. Total lean machine, dude’s got stamina, and an epic cock! Let’s go!

#ai generated #male tf #muscle tf #smart to dumb #jock tf #age reduction #wereteenager

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sukoocoo · 3 days ago

Text

Y'all wanted more Sukuna right, chat?

God, what was Sukuna even doing right now?

He told himself he wouldn't indulge in this anymore, yet, here he was with Y/N sitting so prettily on his lap in his personal office at home. Fuck, even the way they looked at him and the way their body pressed up against his should've been a sin.

Y/N was married for fuck's sake. This was his friend's kid, for crying out loud. It didn't help that Sukuna was twice their age, grey streaks already starting to pepper his hair and frown lines setting in. They were still so pretty and youthful; their skin practically glowing and their face untouched by the harshness of life. An angel, a gift from above, all for Sukuna.

Everything about them was perfect. From their doe eyes to their lips, from their soft hands to their tight fucking hole, the sweet gasps that left their mouth whenever he thrusted into their sweet spot, the breathy sighs of his name when he fucked them through yet another orgasm, the way they clenched around his dick like they never wanted to stop riding him. Y/N was like a drug.

And Sukuna? He was addicted. His pants were already starting to tent with want and Y/N hadn't even been in his lap for five minutes. He needed them like they were the only thing keeping him alive.

Just as he was going to pull them closer to have them feel the bulge forming in his pants, Y/N mumbled something about their husband, breaking Sukuna's train of thought.

A growl ripped from his throat and he placed a hand over Y/N's mouth to shut them up.

"You came here to see me, not him. You keep his name out of your mouth when you're with me" he practically spit out, just barely holding back a snarl. His lip curled up in a sneer and he leaned forward, daring Y/N to say another thing about their stupid husband, Kenji.

Oh, that fucking bastard. Sukuna hated Kenji with every fiber of his body. The audacity he had to openly cheat on Y/N, to blatantly use them for their inheritance money. That bitch he was having an affair with was just the same. Rei or whatever the fuck her name was.

Sukuna didn't give a fuck what her name was. The only reason he even knew what Y/N's husband was named was because they wouldn't shut up about him. It angered him because Kenji couldn't see just how fucking perfect Y/N was. If heaven was real, it was Y/N, they were everything to Sukuna.

And he'd do anything to keep them at his side. Sukuna was not a good man, he wasn't above extortion or blackmail or whatever.

But this? Having Y/N come crying to him for comfort and pleasure? This was enough for now. But Sukuna was selfish and he knew he'd soon want more.

"Tell me, Y/N," Sukuna began, his voice rough with want and jealousy, "does he make you sweat or shiver like I do? Ain't that why you came? Because he can't touch you like I do. He can't appreciate you like I do."

He leaned in, burying his face into the crook of their neck to breathe in their scent. Without missing a beat, he placed his hands on Y/N's hips, fingers inching downwards to grope their ass slowly.

A grin spread across his face and he roughly pulled their hips forwards to meet his through their clothes, letting them feel just how hard he was for them. "Do you want me to make you forget about him? Just say the word, tell me the truth," he breathed, letting one hand roam upwards until it was under their shirt, calloused fingers dancing across smooth skin.

Sorry if this was buns, guys🤧 I've been sick and my heads been hurting a lot.

#jjk #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna ryomen

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lovelycreativecrafts · 3 days ago

Text

Flirting | Gojo x Black Female Reader

Word Count: 1,020

Synopsis: Gojo flirts with a woman who has a resting-mean face.

Warnings: None

Author Notes: I had this scenario in my head for a while. I feel like it could have been written better but I still wanted to post it. I'm still learning about Gojo's character. If you liked the short fanfic, please Like, Reblog, and Comment your thoughts.

Gojo POV

I walked out of the building as my 3 students followed behind me.

“Where are we going, sensei?” Itadori asked.

I looked over my shoulder, “A place where you all will be doing some training. It shouldn’t be too hard since you all have gotten stronger.” I looked back in front of me.

“Why do I feel like it’s going to be very hard.” Nobara mumbled.

Once we made it to the track, there was a group of people already there. Students ran across the track while a familiar woman stood on the side with her arms crossed.

“Is that the new sensei?” Itadori asked.

“Yeah,” Megumi answered.

Nobara expressed, ”You do not want to get on her bad side. One time I was chewing gum in class and the way she looked at me was so scary I thought she would rip the gum straight out of my mouth.”

I held back a chuckle as I listened to Nobara’s opinion. People often mistaken her words and actions just because of how her face naturally rested in a mean expression. Before, I once thought she always had a bad attitude or was angry at the world but after being teamed up with her a few times I grew to understand that was just her natural face.

“Really?”

Megumi added, “I would have to agree with Nobara. I mistakenly fell asleep in her class the other day and she had me stay after class. She told me to make sure I get enough sleep at night so I don’t miss anything in her class but her expression basically said the next time I fall asleep in her class, I will never wake up again.”

“Woah, she really does sound scary. Then I’m glad our teacher is Gojo then,” Itadori said.

I turned toward my students and they all nodded in unison.

I pointed toward myself, “Hm? Do you not think I’m scary?”

“No.” All three of my students said at the same time.

“But I’m the most powerful one here?”

“That doesn’t mean you’re the scariest,” Megumi said.

“She’s actually not that scary. Once you get to know her. Just watch.” I turned away from my students and began making my way closer to the track.

Reader POV

I watched my students run across the track. After evaluating them a few times, I noticed that their stamina wasn’t all that great despite their amazing abilities. I told them there goal was to finish 5 laps and to take breaks if needed but ever since they started they haven’t taken one break. In fact, they ran full speed the whole time.

As much as I appreciate their dedication, I’m going to have to stop them soon. One of them already looks like they're about to pass out.

Something brushed past my ear, “Hello Beautiful,” a male voice whispered.

I quickly covered my ear and jumped away from the voice. My heart raced as I turned and recognized the familiar white-haired man.

Gojo chuckled, “I thought you would have gotten used to that by now.”

I blinked at him, “And I thought I told you to stop doing that.”

A smirk spread on his lips, “And why would I do that?”

I sighed and removed my hand from my ear. Of course, it was Gojo. He’s the only one that would tease me.

I looked up at Gojo, “Why do you keep calling me that? You really shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

Gojo leaned toward me, “You think I’m lying?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, “What else would you be doing?”

“Wow, you really should improve your confidence. I’m not really one for lying, you know.��

“What do you mean by that?”

“Let me put it bluntly, I think you’re very pretty. Not as pretty as me of course but still pretty.”

My cheeks warmed and I looked away from him. There he goes again.

Gojo let out a chuckle, “You’re so cute when you blush.”

My cheeks grew hotter as I continued to not meet his eyes, “And how would you know if I’m blushing? It’s not like you can see it with my skin tone.”

Gojo lightly grabbed my chin and turned my head toward him, “Well for one, every time you do blush, you always turn away from me.”

My heartbeat quickened as he leaned closer to me, “Two, your pupils in your eyes tend to expand just slightly, and three . . .”

He paused and I waited for him to answer. How long has he been observing me like this?

“I think I will keep the last one to myself.”

“So, you’re able to see all of that with your blindfold on? That’s hard to believe.”

Gojo removed his fingers from my chin but kept the closeness between us, “I’m able to do a lot of things with this blindfold on and it’s no exception to seeing right through you. Honestly, you’re like an open book to me.”

Gojo leaned away from me and a smile spread across his face, “You didn’t have to mention my blindfold just so you could see my face, you know.”

“What? That’s not why I-,”

“Honestly, you could have just asked and I would have gladly given you a quick glance.” Gojo placed one of his fingers under his blindfold.

I quickly looked away from him as the blush on my cheeks spread to the rest of my face, “That-That’s not why I-I mentioned your bl-blindfold.” Why am I stuttering?

“Tell you what, I’ll let you see my beautiful face if you let me take you out on a date.”

“What?” My eyes widened as I looked back at him. He’s doing it again.

“Shouldn’t you ask someone that you actually like?”

“How dense can you be? I do like you and not just because you’re pretty. Oh and by the way, I think one of your students just passed out.” Gojo pointed toward the track.

I turned toward the track and saw one of them lying flat on the ground. I quickly ran toward my student. I thought I told them to take breaks.

#gojo x reader #gojo x black reader #gojo x female reader #gojo x f!reader #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #gojo jujutsu kaisen #fanfiction writing #fanfiction #anime fanfic #x reader #anime fanfiction

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alilobsessive · 3 days ago

Note

How does the Batfam react to Mayday!Reader when they first meet them? Like, what kind of family are they to them? Are they overly coddling? I think Bruce definitely would be at least.

I mean, Mayday!Reader is probably the weirdest kid he’s ever had to look after. They’re his grandchild, the host of a symbiote, a ‘spider’ and they literally cling onto him all day. Like all day, Bruce has to hold them like a little baby in his arms. Not that he minds that, they’re so tiny.

Well firstly they didn’t realize reader is a spider, not yet the first few days they seemed just like any normal traumatized child. Clinging onto Bruce and throwing a tantrum when he had to leave for literally any reason. Why Reader clung onto Bruce is a mystery, maybe it’s because of how similar him and NW look, maybe it’s for a different reason entirely. Everyone treaded carefully around Reader, yes they all lost their own parents when they were kids, except Damien. But none of them lost their’s while they were still in kindergarten. Eventually Bruce was able to pry reader off of him and hand him over to Tim so he could get back to his one true calling in life, being Batman. It was very awkward, Tim’s not good with kids and honestly doesn’t know how to handle them. But for some inexplicable reason, Reader latches onto him, reader finds Jason to boring with his only redeeming quality being his motorcycle much to Jason’s chagrin. Reader thinks Dick is creepy, which results in a very distressed Dick. They still remember the way Damien looked at NW corpse that day and throw hands on sight. Duke and Cas are chill but Reader doesn’t have strong opinions on them, they are secretly competing with Tim for favorite Uncle/Aunt.

Of course they start noticing odd occurrences since Reader moves in. They don’t think to hard about it, there all adjusting to a small child moving in. It isn’t until Dick sees reader scurrying on the ceiling, look down at Dick, hiss at him then continues on there way do things click. It does explain the sudden lack of the arrogant spider themed superhero and all the weird things going around the house. But they desperately attempt to keep reader away from the vigilante life, even with the knowledge that Readers Vigilante lineage is a lot thicker then previously thought. Except Damien who is constantly trying to train them. If only they would stop biting him it would be a lot easier.

#batfam x reader #platonic batfam #x gender neutral reader #x reader #fuck it #Mayday Reader

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4zahara · 2 days ago

Text

01 | A stranger is stargazing

Word count: 3.1k

A/N: I just got back from a trip and wanted to upload this before studying for my algebra finals next month. This was going to be way longer but then I saw the word count and chopped it off. I have zero imagination. Used chatgpt to translate some Spanish phrases because in English they use similar terms but different meanings. Also, my birthday falls on carnivals so it's going to be a very nice last week of vacations😁

The knock on the door pulled you from your daze, snapping your attention away from the stains on the ceiling.

Outside the only window in the apartment, barred as all must be, the sky hung a deep, polluted red, with clouds stretching far into the distance. Blue-ish if you squint your eyes. You, as one far too used to the sights, needed not to look at no clock's way to know this to be an unholy hour to bother someone. The thing was broken anyway and the lack of light filtering through was telltale enough.

It was clear, however, that someone disagreed with the concept of appropriate visiting hours. Despite your irritation, you silently hoped it wasn’t who you thought of first knocking at the door—because reliving another nightmare firsthand was the last thing you could handle after an already exhausting day. The familiar fear of being alone at night when an unexpected knock shattered the silence wasn’t something you’d grown up with instinctively, as others might. No, this was a fear learned the hard way, carved into you by mistakes you committed.

Alarm bells rang deafening while you stare frozen. You found it almost cruel when everything stayed as still as you at the faintest reminder of the last time you heard knocking. Like a punishment to yourself the shelves and mess had been kept neat, framing a stop in time on your doorstep. Back then, one of the other residents had barged in, leaving you shaken—hunted by the tickling feeling of his breath on your neck when you hadn’t turned around soon enough.

You forced yourself to push the thought away, though it lingered. A ghostly feeling clung to you, far longer than you were willing to admit to yourself, when another knock shattered your fragile composure. The sound was louder this time, sharper, snapping you back into the present. Startled, you leapt to your feet, knocking over the ashtray on the armrest with your rushed and unsteady movements. An horribly loud clatter echoed against the walls for seconds too long after falling to the floor, scattering ash and ceramic across the oppressive silence. The noise startled a hiss out of you, as though the sudden disruption physically hurt.

Out of the corner of your eye, an aluminum baseball bat tucked neatly among the umbrellas by the door. It waited in its place—only silent and steady reassurance for your burning hands.

Had the thought not been so disturbingly visceral, you would have entertained the idea of describing what you felt as a hand twisting your guts as you marched toward the door. But the imagery was too grotesque to entertain, so you buried it and kept moving.

Two locks clicked open unnaturally loud. The third lock, a flimsy chain, dangled just in front of your forehead. Not much of a safeguard, but it gave you the illusion of control even knowing the thin wood wouldn’t hold if it came to a struggle.

But what you braced for never came.

On the other side of the door, the menacing face you dreaded wasn’t there. No menacing glare from fish-like, ogling eyes.

Instead, a boy. Smaller than you.

Even more fragile-looking.

It was almost embarrassing how much taller you had expected the visitor to be. Instead, you found yourself slowly—almost comically—looking down at a face twisted in a grimace, like the boy had just sucked on a lemon.

If there was anything that could have thrown you off more in this moment, you couldn’t think of it. Then came like being hit by a train the realization of your own disheveled appearance: some pale, sickly, and worn thin girl. For looking less like a witch had others been burned. Still, you forced a smile—awkward and out of place in your face. Apparently, not beating those imaginary witch-allegations in your head, smiling wasn’t the right move in a dimly lit hallway in the dead of night.

Wonder why the boy’s expression shifted almost instantly from startled surprise to wide-eyed panic as your gazes met. Both pairs of blue eyes locked onto each other, mirrors to one another.

He was drenched, water dripping from a hoodie too big for him, which clung awkwardly to his small frame. The soaked fabric looked heavy for his noddle arms. A busted lip stood out starkly for being the kind of injury that screamed ‘street-kid’ in this side of the country. Easy—normal, even—to assume a fight was the cause. Maybe at home. Maybe over food with other kids.

Wait. It was raining outside?

“I... I’m your brother,” he stammered, words tumbling out in a rush. His face crumpled almost immediately, tears welling up as if he wanted to cry. You guessed from cringing so hard.

His words, anxious and unsteady, made it hard to process what he’d said, let alone empathize. This you blinked dumb-ly. Once. Twice. Then squinted, trying to focus your tired eyes on him. Because it couldn’t be.

Your brother was hardly a toddler.

It hadn’t been that long... just a couple of years. Maybe.

It wasn’t immediate—far from the clarity you might have preferred—but recognition did dawned the longer you looked. His mop of wet messy curls struggled under its own weight, stubbornly sticking out in awkward directions, much like yours often did after a shower. And those eyes.

Willis had definitely had a thing or two for light eyes in a woman.

This time the realization felt like a sharper pain; a slap. Older now—maybe nine or ten—your brother was standing in front of you, the spitting image of his father like you were of your mother. That thought anchored you, rooted you in place as the silence grew, filled only by static.

With it, the questions began to tumble through your mind like dominoes:

How the hell did he get here?

Obviously, he walked, right? But in the rain?

All the way here from Crime Alley, in the dark?

You stared at him for far too long. So much you could've started to feel uncomfortable too. It was socially inappropriate even. But so it was disturbing people at this hour, so you bet you kept staring. Thoughts clashed and raced, refusing to settle.

“Yeah, kid, I don’t know about that—” The words came out hesitant, weak. Perhaps speaking them might dissolve the truth in front of you. But the longer you denied it, the clearer it became.

Of course, this was your brother.

It just had to be, because why the hell not?

Your baby brother.

He had to be about ten now. You hoped he was still nine, but his birthday had long passed if you had it right.

How in the hell did he find me?

Is his lip okay? Clearly not—but how had it gotten busted?

Did he get into a fight?

Where are mom and dad?

The thought of him walking alone out there, so small and vulnerable, chilled you to the bone. The idea of walking the streets alone terrified you being his senior. Out there, death would almost feel merciful compared to what could happen.

At least the monster living down the hall was a known evil. The streets, though? They hid horrors far worse.

People often said you could sense being watched, when they weren’t alone in a

room and danger loomed nearby. Whatever that underdeveloped sixth sense was, it stirred in you, pulling your gaze away from Maybe-Jason—who, judging by his oblivious expression, has proudly evolved past any shred of survival instinct—and toward the hallway.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

The very last, or first, of the apartment doors down the hall stood slightly ajar, its shadowed outline warped in the dim, flickering light. Large portions of the space cloaked in suffocating darkness by burned-out bulbs, but even through the haze of your blurry vision and growing dread, you could see him.

There he was. Standing just within the frame of the door, his silhouette barely illuminated. He didn’t need much light to convey what he was—a predator, coiled and waiting. The sight almost froze you in place with chills one after the other. It was like watching carnage step into the light dressed in colours to deceive.

You yanked on the door handle without thought, The lock chain vibrating sharply. The frame rattled under your grip as your restless hands itched to do something—anything. Every instinct screamed at you to grab Jason, drag him inside, and slam the door. Brother or not, scammer or not, it didn’t matter. All you wanted was to get him out of sight. Out of that sight.

From the neighbors.

From the world.

From the danger now standing on your threshold.

Of course, although you had never meant to shut the door in his face, it wasn’t hard to see why Jason probably thought you were doing just that. Looking up from frantically searching his pockets for whatever reason, only to look up and see you disappear behind the chipped wood and flaking varnish must've been disheartening. Desperation etched on his young face perfectly mirrored the ache pounding in your chest—a feeling only a boy his age could wear so openly, and one only you could understand. You knew what could happen to him, to both of you, and the weight of that knowledge crushed you. His desperation laid elsewhere, as he was yet to become aware of the danger. But the feeling was mutual. Fear smells salty.

His small fist struck the door again and again. He called for nobody, babbling something about proving his claim instead. Maybe he’d forgotten your name in the haze of his nerves, or time had scrambled the syllables and their order.

It has been a while.

His pounding made you flinch, and in your fumbling to undo the chain, your ragged nails scraped against the surface. The accidental movement sent a sharp pain stabbing under your nails, but no time for whatever that was. Not as the metallic screech of rusted hinges sliced through the air.

The sound sent your heart into overdrive.

Before let-this-be-Jason could strike the door again you grabbed his arm and yanked him inside, shoving him behind you. Behind safety. That's where your brother belonged.

Then, before your dizzy, unfocused self could register how close it had been, you slammed the door shut.

══════════════ • ✧ • ══════════════

Even before stepping out of the house, Jason knew to be digging himself into a hole. He accepted the fact for what it was; his desperation guiding him down a path of poor decisions. He just hadn’t realized a shovel was in his hands until the hole’s depth exceeded his height.

Grabbed, tossed, pulled. Weren't the walls of his vertical tomb collapsing in slow, suffocating ruin, lovely? Beautiful, even.

He would have liked to think the inside of what he hoped was his sister’s apartment might be better than the place he’d come from.

It wasn’t.

It smelled of cigarette smoke, and shadows pooled in every corner. The darkness clinging to the space, thick and uninviting, might have made Jason feel at home—dragged around and overwhelmed—if the situation hadn’t spiraled out of his control so quickly.

Sure, they were family, and blood was supposed to be thicker than water, but none of that mattered if she didn’t even know he was her brother. The memories he’d clung to, distant and blurry, painted his sister as gentle and caring.

You? didn’t match that picture.

In retrospect, he realized you weren't much taller than him, and so thin he couldn’t understand why he felt so threatened. If you did try something, he figured, he could probably win in a fight—especially if the bat he somehow now held in his hands came into play.

He couldn’t remember grabbing it. Or when it had reached his hands.

It was on the floor and he had tripped with it.

You had your back to him now, tense and uncertain, seeming just as out of it as he was. For all his distrust, Jason couldn’t tell who, between the two of them, was more afraid of what might happen next.

You were frantic, scrambling to lock all four bolts, including the padlock. Each metallic click seemed to drive Jason’s heart deeper into the pit of his stomach, where it churned in acid. But he was too far gone—trapped in fight-or-flight mode—to cry about it.

Your hand hovered near the floor, near the umbrellas scattered there. Groping blindly for a handle, probably searching for the bat’s. Or maybe, fingers crossed, an umbrella to pity him.

Call it hopeful thinking.

Jason heard you curse under your breath, blaming yourself for throwing “it” too hard behind you. Still, you didn’t dare take your eyes off the door, as if you believed your unrelenting stare could alone hold it in place, as if sheer willpower wasn't already the only thing keeping that piece of wood standing. From this side, the door looked even shoddier, barely more than splintered wood and peeling paint. Jason stared at it, and you, his mind buzzing. For a fleeting second, he thought he could probably bring it down if he wanted to, so clearly the adrenaline was getting to his head.

“I think… I think it’s safe,” you muttered. Your voice shook, but the words didn’t sound like they were meant to reassure anyone but you.

Your trembling hands dropped to your sides, and you stepped away from the door.

“Safe?” Jason barked, his voice sharp, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

That’s when he learned the first thing about his so-called sister. Other than the assumptions he’d already built in his head, you were jumpy. You flinched, almost as if you hadn’t expected him to speak or still be there. To what he had to ask; Where else would he go?

His hands tightened around the bat, frustration bubbling in his chest.

Right. He had a weapon. Maybe that explained your jumpiness when facing him.

“Wow.” Your hands shot up in surrender, in a reflexive, almost lazy gesture of defeat. You didn't want to appear threatening, but your wide eyes just ticked Jason off. “So that’s where the bat went.”

“Why did you drag me in like that?” Jason barely hides the accusation. An unspoken ‘Why can’t you be normal?’ wail hung in his mind. He decided against saying it outright—better to avoid sounding desperate or offended, even if both ships had sailed.

“Because the Boogeyman was about to get you? Obviously?” you shot back, your tone spoke to a child far younger than him. Your grimace wasn’t for him though.

“What?” Confused.

“What?” You mimicked. Jason felt whatever hope he had for your help steadily slipping away.

“What— are you doing?!”

“How about you put the bat down, buddy—back with the umbrellas? I’m not going to attack you,” Jason cut you off, his frustration boiling over. “You pushed me into your apartment! If anything, you’re kidnapping me—”

“There was a man outside!” you cut him off yourself with a sharp exclamation and throwing your hands in the air, sounding genuinely offended at being called out. Good. Jason couldn't be the only one losing it here. “And stop shouting,” you hissed, lowering your voice but glaring at him. “Other people live here.”

Jason glanced around. “This place is disgusting.” Home wasn't better, but he was pissed.

“Thanks,” There was a sharp edge, more venom in your tone than you’d intended. It startled Jason enough to make him take a step back.

Seeing your little brother back away from you should've tug on your heartstrings. It did. Almost tearing them off at the memory of a toddler gleefully making a mess of his food, yet looking so utterly blameless.

You couldn't be angry at Jason—if this was truly Jason. You had to remember who you were getting angry at and would/could cry.

Still, you should’ve been ashamed of the mess. You looked like you knew you should.

The apartment was tiny, cramped, and barely livable. The peeling wallpaper was stained yellow. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, a leaning tower of neglect, and discarded takeout containers dotted the counters like forgotten relics. The lone couch sagged under its own weight, covered in a mismatched patchwork of old blankets, and the floor—God, the floor...

Jason, once a master of breaking down your stubborn resolve with those big, pleading eyes, probably for the best, didn't seem to remember his power over you even having already made you back down. You sighed and leaned against the door. Slowly, you slid down until you hit the floor. The movement felt pitiful, like a defeated video game boss collapsing after the final blow. Only there was no triumphant music playing in the background and it looked sadder.

You stared at the floor, head tilted slightly forward, shoulders slumped. “It’s been a while,” you muttered, your voice strained, “since I talked to actual people, okay? Sorry for… the mess. I guess.”

And Jason reluctantly lowered his guard.

The bat still clenched tightly in his hands, eventually lowered, no longer pointing at you. Even so, he kept it close as he sat down on the floor, mirroring your posture.

“S’okay,” he mumbled.

“You look battered,” you said before a ten year old could take pity on you.

“You look high.”

To what his sister gasped, hand flying to your chest in mock offense. “I don’t—do I?—” And stopped abruptly. A pause, a sigh, and then you scratched the back of your neck, avoiding his gaze. “Okay, fair enough. ‘m not like that, but they cut the water off Monday morning so...”

“...It’s wednesday,”Jason saw you wince.

“What are you doing here anyway? How did you find me? Or even get here in the first place?”

“I walked…” Jason admitted, trailing off. He’d wanted the silence to stretch a little longer, but…

“(Name)?”

“Hey,” you cut in, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Glad to know you remember my name.”

“I came because of mom… Was there really someone in the hallway?”

“Yeah... Some creep. I'm 80% sure he’s a pimp too.”

“A pin? What's that?”

“What's what?” Suddenly remembering the limits and implications of talking to a ten year old. Even if the streets were more home than Catherine and Willis, Jason was still a child. You too, but you have literally lived in the streets for some time.

Wonderful times.

“Doesn’t matter. Just be more careful, Jason.”

He hesitated, the weight of his next words sinking his shoulders. “Mom 's bad.”

Your face fell. “You shouldn’t have left her alone with Dad if she was already—”

“Willis is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Jail.”

“…Huh.” You slumped back against the door, your hand rubbing at your temple. “Well… you shouldn’t go back out at this hour,” you muttered, your tone softening. “Especially not in the rain.” You pushed yourself to your feet with a groan. “I’ll grab you a towel… Food?”

His stomach grumbled, betraying him entirely.

“Yeah. Food too then.”

#jason todd #batfam x reader #x reader #batsis!reader #batman #kid jason todd #batfam x batsis #batfam

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batboyblog · 3 days ago

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I just wanted to thank you so much for all of your reporting on Biden. When I first voted for him, I was mostly voting against Trump, but over time he really won me over by delivering so much more than I could have imagined. I just read your post thanking him and it's making me tear up. He was the best, most progressive president we've had and I'm so heartbroken to see him go. Even if we win again one day and manage to get another president who delivers this much, I still think I'll always be a Biden Democrat at heart. He came from humble beginnings and dedicated his entire life to this country--a country who needed him but didn't want him or appreciate him. He did what he could for people whose identities he doesn't share, and he did it simply because he wanted to and it was the right thing to do. He did it even though they hated him. It makes me think of all the normal every day people who do their best to make the world better in whatever way they can and who get no recognition for it. Your posts would give me hope and they didn't mean "very little" to me. Thank you for doing your part. I'm wishing you strength and hope. 🤎

My grandfather and I talked politics all the time, he'd catch my eye across the room and wave me over and he and I would talk. I'm really glad he's not around to see this because he'd hate it, but I'd give just about anything to talk to him about it.

The last time I saw him in person and we talked shortly before he died in late 2019 he told me "It has to be Biden, he's the only one" and I didn't believe him, I didn't see it. I thought Harris, or maybe Gillibrand. The old man always saw more clearly than I did.

I was a lot like you, not being Trump was good enough, I didn't have high expectations, but to be clear not being Trump was enough and should have ALWAYS been more than enough.

Particularly after January 6th being the guy who saved us from Fascism, a coup, and oh yeah being a basically good person after the worst living American was President were all amazing! great!

But like you said he didn't stop at just putting everything back, he moved. Here was this old white guy, but really believed in diversity, in an idea of America I could be proud of, of not just paying lip service to diversity but really lifting up voices that don't get heard. A guy who reached the top but wasn't jealous and lifted up voices, Harris, Buttigieg, Deb Haaland, etc and let them be stars in their own right.

and the agenda, I'd basically given up that we'd really fight climate change, and yeah it was the 11th hour but he came in fighting like it was the 11th hour, like we really were gonna go to the moon. And high speed rail? and and and etc

There's a line in the Speech Hillary Clinton gave when she had to end her 2008 campaign for President, "And, when you stumble, keep faith. And, when you're knocked down, get right back up and never listen to anyone who says you can't or shouldn't go on." And I think that sums up Joe Biden.

A working class boy from the wrong side of the tracks in Scranton Pennsylvania with a stutter was never ever supposed to run for office. A kid from a state school who was too young to even be sworn into the Senate on Election Day was never supposed to win a Senate seat on his first try. And no one could have blamed him if after his wife and youngest child died leaving him a single dad of two little boy's in a hospital he'd given up on politics and stepped away. But he didn't he was sworn in in the hospital with his kids. He took the train every day to be back home with them at night.

Time and time again life tried to knock Joe down, but it never ever knocked him out.

I think the lesson is to really LOOK! at our leaders, really see them. There's so much cynicism that all politicians are rotten, that you shouldn't "idealize" them or whatever. I'm not saying to, but I'm saying see them for who they really are, who's a basically decent person working hard to make people's lives better, and understand the difference between that and something like Trump.

And its not up to them to save us, or... its that old joke? about the flood and the man who thinks God will save him? we got to pitch in to help save ourselves, great leaders are great but if a whole propaganda system tells everyone they suck they're not gonna be able to do much, we got to do the counter messaging, we got to talk to the real people in our lives and fight back and on-line and we have to go help us be cringe and give a shit and be earnest

#Joe Biden #politics #political #US politics #american politics #ask #answer

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the-pen-pot · 2 days ago

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'How long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?' Arthur did not know it then, but that was the day the first crack appeared in the foundation of everything he believed to be true. ---- Sometimes the lessons we are taught turn out to be wrong, and it takes a true friend to set us on the right path.

Rated G | 2000 words | Complete

As a child, Arthur had been far less fond of book-learning than he was of sword-practice. His tutors had tried their best, but he had spent more time thinking of the duelling ring than he had attending to their words. However, there were some lessons that lodged in his mind, staying with him as he grew from a boy to a man. One in particular came not from Geoffrey or Gaius, but from his father, spoken like law from on high.

'Do not speak thoughtlessly. Everything you say and do will be picked over by your audience, whether you intend it or not. You cannot afford to extemporise, even in your personal conversations. In every word and every action, you must be a prince. The crown comes before all else, Arthur.'

And so, he had acted how he believed a prince should act, until it became second nature to be callous and indifferent: a bully by another name. He put on a performance of superiority with everyone except his father, because that was what was expected of him.

Right up until some peasant in the marketplace met his eye and saw right through him.

'How long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?'

Arthur did not know it then, but that was the day the first crack appeared in the foundation of everything he believed to be true.

The problem was that old habits were hard to leave behind. He still reacted to impudence with harsh words and occasional careless violence, but then Merlin would do something noble and self-sacrificing and Arthur found himself frantic to set things right.

The desperate ride for the Mortaeus flower, the insistence to drink poison at the Labyrinth of Gedref... He had not planned either of those paths of action. He had simply done what he felt was right, and as the rift between himself and his father yawned wide, he and Merlin only seemed to grow closer.

People noticed it; his moments of kindness or nobility. Courtiers stopped treating him with glassy politeness and strained smiles. They came to him with their problems, rarely at first, but more readily as the months turned. The people of the Lower Town were less hesitant to speak of their troubles and fears. There was a subtle softening of Camelot as a whole, the divisions between labourer and lord lessening as people looked to the future.

The stalwart support of Leon came first, an old friendship rekindled not by duty, nor as a courtly act, but because Arthur had missed what they'd once had when he was no more than a child and Leon a young page. Lancelot and Gwaine came after, knocking off his sharper edges with wise words and mirthful teasing, reminding him again and again that he was more than his duty. Elyan and Percival added to the effort, joining him not because their bloodlines demanded the sacrifice but because they wanted to be part of the future that was starting to take shape beneath his hand.

Once, he felt as if he had been alone: heir to a troubled kingdom. These days he realised that, while he would one day wear the crown that currently rested upon his father's brow, there were others around him to help with the weight. He had always thought he would be respected by his people; he had never imagined he might be liked, not for the mask he wore, but for the man beneath.

'They listen to you,' Merlin said one day when Arthur was fretting over some speech or other. 'Not this.' He gestured to the parchment. 'That's a performance. They hear you best when you speak from the heart.'

He had scoffed at that. What did Merlin know? And yet... And yet.

It was his heart that spoke first when Morgana came to him, pale but for the tear tracks upon her face, trembling with the kind of fear that would drive a person mad. It was his heart that bade him not to reach for his sword when she confessed her magic, but to hold out his arms instead, embracing her as he had not done since they were children. What had risen within him was not the determination of a prince to abide by his father's laws but the knowledge that sometimes defiance was the only way forward.

Sorcery was evil, or so his father said.

Morgana had magic, and she was not the only one.

Merlin's confession was just as breathless; his truths cleaving away at everything Uther had uttered and Arthur had never sought to question. They both stood before him, united in their terror and their hope. Desperate for him to be the man they knew he could be rather than the perfect son his father had endeavoured to sculpt from his own ambition.

There was a breathless moment, one where Arthur could feel the fork in the path of his own future. He hesitated in his choice, but in the end, he did not let them down.

He could not claim it was easy. Habit, once more, was a hard thing to break, but he toiled away at it as he guarded their secret, taking out every broken, jagged piece of hate that his father had placed within him and turning it to the light. He and Merlin talked long into the night, sometimes in peace and sometimes in fury. They took it all apart and put it together once more, building something afresh from the ruins the revelation had left in its wake.

Morgana's confession had shocked him, but Merlin's had hurt.

It was there, in the long aftermath, that he and Merlin lay sprawled upon the rug, not a master and servant or even a prince and a sorcerer. Just two men sharing their secrets.

'Was anything my father told me true?' Arthur asked, speaking to the ceiling. When he got no reply, he turned his head, looking at Merlin's profile: the full mouth wrenched in doubt and dark lashes dipped down over eyes turned to navy and gold in the firelight. Most would have offered platitudes or reassurances, but not Merlin. He did not seek to coddle Arthur or deceive him with some half-truth. He merely twisted onto his side, meeting his gaze. It was easy and instinctual to mirror him, to curl up close, their knees knocking and their voices quiet, sharing words meant only for each other.

'I don't know. I think he thinks it's true. Maybe, as far as he's concerned, that's the only thing that matters.'

Arthur scoffed a mirthless laugh. He could well believe it. His father had built an impossible enemy out of the magic he reviled, embellishing grains of truth into monoliths of deception. Perhaps he had done it for so long that he now believed his own lies, and Camelot suffered as a result.

Merlin suffered.

He did not complain, but Arthur could see how his secret weighed upon him. Confessing it to Arthur helped, or so he liked to think. He and Morgana both seemed to rest a bit easier in their own skin, but he still saw how they presented themselves to the world. How they hid this great, intrinsic part of themselves and, in doing so, cut away at something integral. He had never noticed Merlin's wounds, which may not bleed but still hurt all the same. Not until he had revealed himself, and then...?

He had thought, for years now, that Merlin was one of the bravest people he knew. It was only now that he realised just how right he had been.

Merlin had stayed in a kingdom that loathed his existence, not for his own gain but for Arthur's protection. At first, he had been following the dragon's guidance, but there had been nothing practiced in Merlin's rueful explanation when he said it didn't take long for him to realise his place was here, at Arthur's side.

He had been raised his whole life to expect loyalty from nobles and knights alike. He had never thought to win it from a man like Merlin. Now, it felt as if the whole world was shifting, new truths slipping into place as old veils were swept aside. All the things Arthur had hidden and forced down – telling himself there was no place for such things in the life of a prince – surged to the fore once more, leaving him dizzy and breathless.

There was another choice in the road before him, one where he could cling to the last vestiges of his father's wishes and attempt to model himself into the heir Uther wanted him to be, or one where he could let go of that desperate hope for approval. Where he could stand on his own feet and be his own man.

Perhaps he could not yet seize the throne and strip away the laws on magic: nor would he wish to do such a thing in haste. That had to be a strategy constructed from careful thought and considerable planning. He would need allies and time to put things in place. It could not be a matter of impulse: not if he wanted to get it right.

But there was one other thing: a secret of his own. One that he had harboured, subtle and close, for longer than he cared to consider. He could not remember the day he had looked at Merlin and seen something more. More than a friend, and certainly more than a servant. He could not remember the first time his chest had filled with that odd, fizzy excitement in response to nothing more unusual than Merlin's smile, but the sensation had taken root, burgeoning into something he rarely dared to look in the face.

His father had once told him that every word he uttered must be a planned performance, but in that moment, it was Merlin's advice that rang in his head.

They hear you best when you speak from the heart.

Merlin had lain himself bare for Arthur's judgement, knowing what was at stake. It seemed only fair that Arthur offered this in return: a tiny hope that had withstood all his efforts to stifle it.

He parted his lips, but it was as if his voice had failed him, withering to nothing. Instead, he lay there, the rug soft beneath his frame and the firelight warm against him as he stared into Merlin's face: warm blue eyes and full lips, softly parted, a hint of freckles across the bridge of his nose from summer and that impossible faith gleaming in his gaze.

He looked at Arthur as if he would lay the world at his feet if he only asked, not because of the right word in the right place but because he saw the truths that Arthur had tried so hard to stifle for his own father's approval.

Hesitantly, Arthur shifted his hand over the rug, curling one finger cautiously over Merlin's. Perhaps he should be ashamed of the oh-so-subtle gesture. It did not speak of a knight's courage or a king's confidence, yet it was something he needed: a quick connection. He and Merlin touched each other all the time, in the line of duty or in fond horseplay, shoving and nudging. It was a thinly veiled way to show affection, but this? This was different, and judging from the way Merlin's breath caught between his lips, he knew it too.

That hand turned, twisted, catching Arthur's fingers in his own grasp. He offered no excuses, and there was a certain light of challenge in his eyes, as if he were silently daring Arthur to withdraw. The tip of Merlin's tongue darted out to wet his lips, all invitation, and the last of Arthur's doubt melted away as he leaned in to claim a soft kiss.

It felt as if it were something he had been waiting for all his life. Not just the heat of Merlin's lips or the press of his body, the surprised, eager little gasp that escaped him or the clutch of his hands... Arthur's heart spoke, and Merlin?

Merlin listened, just as he always would.

#Merlin #Merthur #My Fanfic

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